


Emotion in Poetry

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Felix pines over Peter but what else is new, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Malcolm is an asshole, Power Imbalance, but in university so everyone's over the age of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Previously Titled: Hot For Teacher.</b> </p><p>Felix is stuck alone for a whole semester while Peter's in the Czech Republic on foreign exchange. He figures this'll be a chance for him to pick up more hours at the diner, work on some difficult classes without his best friend whisking him away on this adventure or that. </p><p>But then he walks into English 370, <i>Emotion in Poetry</i> with Dr. Malcolm Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emotion in Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [z0mbieshake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/z0mbieshake/gifts).



> so this is what happens when you have five pages worth of conversation with z0mbieshake almost every day for seven months. 
> 
> disclaimer: This fic depicts a teacher/student relationship in a university setting. Although all participants depicted are over the age of consent I still don’t condone this behavior and recognize all power imbalances and unsavory stuff that’s implicit in this sort of relationship. Please don't get into a relationship with your professors. It's a bad idea. 
> 
> Also, I've put links inside the text of all the poems used in the story if you care to read them. :)

_**January** _

 

Felix hasn't been on time to a single class all day. He'd slept through his 9AM after Peter kept him up all night on Skype. His books haven't come in the mail yet (like hell if he's going to pay $250 for an Econ book) and the stop at the post office made him late for his noon class. The late start made it damn near impossible to get back on track.

But he figures that's what he gets for piling all five of his classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He's been hoping to get some extra hours at the diner. With Peter in Europe for the next twelve weeks, he'll have the chance to sit down and budget and figure out his life without his best friend with the sharp smiles and bright eyes begging him away on this adventure or that. He'll be able to get shit done.

The thought, Felix realizes, makes his heart drop. He's grown so accustomed to Peter's adventures in the last few years. Twelve weeks without them; Felix has cabin fever just thinking about it.

He's only three minutes late to his last class of the evening, but it seems as though at least he'll catch a small break, because the professor isn't in either. They've been waiting for about five minutes since Felix arrived, everyone swiveling in their chairs.

"This  _is_ the right room, right?" Someone asks, dragging her fingers on her phone's screen - possibly pulling up her schedule.

Felix doesn't respond, knowing his classmate is only speaking into the void but, from beside him, a pretty woman with an Australian accent, nods, "According to my schedule, it should be. I didn't get an email about any change in plans."

A heavily-sideburned kid shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair. "If he's not here in two minutes, I'm out."

"Oh?" As though a masterfully rendered conscidence, a man enters the room. He's nothing special, dressed in jeans and a wrinkly Oxford shirt with unstyled hair and a beard with patches of grey. "Well I suppose I arrived at the right time then."

Felix leans back into his chair, clicking the end of his pen as the man crosses to the head of the conference table and  _tosses_ a backpack onto its surface. He takes a whiteboard marker and scribbles a few easy words, talking all the while. "English 370. Emotion in Poetry." He turns to the face the class. What comes next is an odd, shrill giggle and he collapses onto the chair waiting for him. "I'm Dr. Malcolm Gold. Calling me Dr. Gold make me feel too old so just call me Dr. M or Malcolm. So, erm, any questions?"

While the majority of the class stares at the man incredulously, Felix does his best to stifle a laugh. It comes out as more of a snort and - unfortunately - it's an audible one and Dr. Malcolm Gold's eyes snap directly to them. Felix's ears burn.

Thankfully, lest there be too much attention on him in this initial interaction, the Australian girl speaks up. "Erm, sir, did you send out the syllabus in an email? I'm-I'm afraid I didn't get one, so…"

Dr. Malcolm Gold literally smacks himself on the forehead, in a rather cartoonish gesture. "Oh right. I suppose I'll have to get one of those drawn up. Oh, well. I'll wing it for today then." He stands and flaps his hand on the table. "Somebody write this down."

Instinctively, Felix clicks his pen open and places it on the table, lips twisted up at the ridiculousness at the man who's - apparently - going to be teaching him for the rest of the semester. Perhaps he's isn't the teacher at all, maybe just walked into the classroom to mess with them. It doesn't seem all that far fetched.

But it's the most interesting thing that's happened to Felix all day.

Dr. Malcolm Gold coughs to clear his throat. "Okay. So this is a poetry class - obviously. And the writing department told me I was teaching it so it's gotta be a poetry writing class, yeah? So for assignments." He leans on the table and squints, staring out the moment. "Okay. We'll do workshops. I'll divide the class into groups - " With an offhanded gesture he points first on Felix's half of the room and then to the other side of the table. "One and two. And every other week you'll write a poem and mail it out to the class and we'll come and talk about. Group One on Tuesdays and Group Two on Thursdays. And in the week between we'll read some stuff that's already been published."

He sighs, taps on his forehead a few times and mutters, "I don't really want to waste time grading to a rubric -or erm, I mean," He takes a moment to hold his hands in front of him and change his voice to something mocking, "' _Poetry is subjective and ought not be limited to a set rubric.'_ So grades will depend on emotional impact, effectiveness, et cetera and all that. I suppose you'll want a buffer for those weeks when your poetry just isn't that great. So. Erm...write... _reviews?_ Yeah. Write four reviews per week on workshop weeks and we'll call it good. I'll do extra credit periodically too."

"Isn't the point of a workshop to get feedback and get better?" The boy with the sideburns says, looking skeptical.

"Yeah," Dr. Malcolm Gold replies. "Naturally. But the Uni mandates I submit grades and credit/no credit isn't fun for me. I didn't get my doctorate so I could give credit to a limerick."

Felix snorts again; his classmates' eyes join the professor's and Felix promptly ducks his head onto his knuckles and waits to resume writing.

"Anyhow," Dr. Malcolm Gold continues. "Like I said on the weeks we don't workshop we'll look at published works." He sighs, "But I'm a busy man so you'll each bring in a poem for us to examine together. I suppose...for your final you'll submit a portfolio of the poems you've already written and an anthology of published works that make you...feel emotions." He nearly jumps up next. "Oh! That fits the theme of the class! Perfect. We'll do that. Aren't I clever?" He fades for a beat but then coughs and addresses the class once more. "I guess, write a sentence or two with them about how it makes you feel things. The midterm will be your work in progress for both projects."

Felix nods and finishes copying down the assignment, he jumps when he hears the professor's voice, sounding like he's hovering just off his shoulder. Jolting to look up, Felix realizes that he's still in the front of the room.

_How the hell did he do that?_

"You in the hoodie," Dr. Malcolm Gold says, repeating himself. "You were copying that down, yeah?"

Slowly, Felix nods. "Yeah."

The professor waves his hand, waving Felix up towards the front of the class. When Felix's face gets hot, he can detect the smallest of smirks on the older man's face before he raises his voice to address the rest of the class. "All right. 10 minute free write. Make a list of words or phrases you personally think are emotional. Things that make you happy or scared of horny or whatever. Just make a list."

Felix frowns a little at that last part. Dr. Malcolm Gold must've seen it because the next thing Felix hears is a shrill giggle and he's arrived to the head of the table.

"Mind if I borrow that?" The professor says, motioning to the notebook in Felix's hands. He stops, an odd thought jumping to the forefront of his mind. "Oh, that's funny. A professor asking a student for notes. Anyhow. I'd just like it so I'll remember everything when I type up the syllabus."

Felix tares the paper from his notebook with a curt nod. He extends the paper to the professor. Fingertips brush against his hand for half a second.

No, that's ridiculous. His fingers aren't that long and there's a full sheet of paper between their hands. He's imagining it.

More than a little annoyed with himself, Felix turns to take his place at the table but not before Dr. Malcolm Gold coughs out, "Your name?"

"Felix."

 

 

Felix was never one to complain about dorms being too small. He liked having the close quarters, liked the way it promoted fraternity so quickly. The way it meant that, so long as Peter was on the other side of the room, an adventure was never too far away. But now, with Peter gone, it almost seems too big. Too much space for one person, too many trinkets and things Peter's left behind, too many snacks in the mini-fridge.

Peter hasn't logged on Skype yet tonight.

Irritated and horribly alone, Felix pulls out his phone and thumbs through his contacts. Curly and Slightly aren't a good choice right now. They're still in that unbearable, constant touching and kissing part of a relationship. Felix doesn't need that flung into his face right now. Nibs got his internship downstate and is too far away. Tootles and Felix haven't been on speaking terms since that Fallout after Nibs lost his pinky finger. Ruby's still working, and he knows it's best not to complain about college in front of her. And so, there's not a friend in the world. Not right now, anyway.

It's not that Felix doesn't appreciate his alone time. Usually he covets it. But it's the fact that nobody wants him around at all. Peter's off, probably just waking up and already speaking fluent Czech and without Peter by his side, none of their mutual friends can even bother noticing him.

A part of Felix really hates himself when he gets on Facebook. The part grows when he types the name into the search bar.  _John Darling._

He deleted John's number over the summer, after the breakup. And he knows what Peter would say right now if he knew Felix was crawling back to his ex - and it was Peter's fault John was an ex anyway and right now, all alone in the concrete block he's supposed to call home, the idea of a reunion at the end of a God Awful Day makes him wonder why he'd listened. All that stuff he and John used to do sounds like the perfect way to unwind. Laughing at each other's failed attempts to eat Chinese takeaway with chopsticks over Need for Speed and too-expensive-for-its-own-good wine. And, Felix can't help but remember when he selects John's profile, they didn't technically have breakup sex back when it happened…

But, of course, Today won't let him even have that solace. He's halfway through constructing a message about maybe meeting up  _'for old time's sake'_ when he notices, in that little column under John's long-term employment:  _In a relationship with Billy Guus._

Felix groans. Of course he is. People like John don't stay off the market for long but - fuck it - Felix doesn't want to be alone right now.

Nothing left to do but homework, Felix guesses.

He can hear Peter in his ear. " _Really? Homework? Already? How on earth have you gotten so boring, Felix?"_

Shaking the criticism from mind, Felix takes his cursor up to the web address and types out a quick inquiry for poems about the one thing left on his mind: abandonment.

It isn't much of a surprise to Felix when he walks into class on Thursday, only a little less perturbed than he was on Tuesday, to find the majority of the class dropped. There's about eight people left, not including Malcolm and including himself. Including the Australian girl and the boy with the sideburns who'd made a spectacle out of themselves earlier.

Sort of like, Felix realizes, unpacking his notebook and pens, he did himself.

Malcolm isn't late this time, in fact he's sitting up front before Felix shuffles in, making bridges with a deck of cards, lazily leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the table.

He has a few minutes to sit and make notes in the margins of the poem he found with a quick Google search before Malcolm folds his cards under his hand and stands up, leaning on the table with his palms of his hands. He looks just as disheveled as earlier, and Felix can't help but think it makes sense for a poetry professor to look so disheveled, almost an inverse-noir in its cliche.

"Down to eight I see. Left only after a first impression, how rude." Malcolm finishes his statement with an understated giggle. With a small stack of white papers in his hand, he begins circling the room, passing out fresh off-the-press syllabi to each of the students, explaining as he did. "Thanks to  _Felix_ there in the back-corner," His eyes twinkle as Felix's eyes grow wide at the added attention. "Everything is just like I said on Tuesday."

Malcolm finally rounds over by Felix, placing a printed copy of the syllabus in his hands, as well as the longhand version on notebook paper. On the sheet covered in Felix's writing, there's a crude little drawing of a sun wearing aviators and a scribbling in curious purple ink up top reading  _OFFICE HOURS: 3-4 THURS+FRI._

"Other than what we covered," Malcolm says continuing his trek through the room. "Mr. Booth at the English department is setting us up a Dropdrive or whatever it's called so we can just download our original poetry there instead of trying to print it all out. Oh, and my office hours are in the Goodman-Hull building, Thursdays and Fridays, one till three."

Felix starts. Looks back at the scribbles on top of his notes.  _3-4 THURS+FRI._ It's on the syllabus, clear as day, however, just like he said:  _Goodman-Hull. R+F. 1-3._

_What?_

Felix draws his brows together and looks up. Malcolm has those cards back in hand as he sits back down into the chair, swiveling in it for a few minutes just like a kid. Oh well, Felix thinks, stuffing the papers into his folder, he probably wrote that before he checked it with the department. Honest mistake.

Refocusing on class, Malcolm clears his throat abruptly. "Okay. As we share the poems we brought today, let's introduce ourselves and tell the class why we picked it or any other quick tidbit of information you'd like to announce." He smiles up at the class. "Who'd like to start?"

The class, made up of eight, hosts an array of people. None of which seem like they'll ever be serious poets. Sure, there's Anton - a guy who seems to live by the concept of Big Guy, Bigger Heart . He seems like the sort to write poetry about  _feelings_ and such. Not the sort who'd write anything good, but at least it doesn't seem weird that he'd get his pen moving.

There's a girl who Felix has seen at the LGBT functions on campus but has never taken the time to get to know - one with dark hair and a friendly smile, a pair of gel bracelets with Pride flags on them (what Felix can tell, the typical rainbow pattern and one made out of a series of pink. Which, thanks for Peter's Human Sexuality course two years ago, Felix knows means Lipstick Lesbian.) She introduced herself as Lily and showed everyone a birthmark on her wrist before plunging into - surprise, surprise - Allen Ginsberg's "[ _A Supermarket in California_.](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177128)"

Will, a boy who claims he's just there to try something new through an incredibly thick accent, reads " _[Annabel Lee](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174151)" _ and for a minute Felix thinks he's gonna run out of the room when Malcolm questions him about the emotional significance.

The guy with the sideburns's name is Hans and, although he's got a likeable face, he no sooner announced that he's "Taking this class as a workshop for my final drafts of poetry before I get them published into an anthology" before Felix knew he sort of hated this guy. (Funnily, enough, it almost seemed as though he were on the same page with his professor as, after Hans's reading, he clicks his tongue and takes a moment to call it an "overpretentious formulated heap of words,").

Which, actually, seems to be the regular order of things, because when asked about it, the next girl shrinks into her seat and frowns, fiddling with her hair. "I"m not sure. But it scares me...so...Maybe the fear of power?"

"That'll do, Rapunzel," Malcolm says, strangely serene in comparison to the rest, especially considering he hasn't looked up from his cards this whole time, shuffling them absently in his hands. This jovial tone returns, though, as he moved on. "Next."

"Well," The Australian girl on Felix's left says, big pretty smile on her face. "My name's Belle. And I'm taking this class to give me the chance to read something beautiful and take my mind off the more intense parts of academia. I like that, too, of course, but it's not quite as beautiful." She grins, round faced making her look young, though Felix figures he's probably much younger than she is. "Anyway, the poem I chose for class was [ _The Road Not Taken_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173536)by Robert Fr-"

"Seriously?" Felix can see Malcolm's head shoot up, evidently having been consumed by his little deck of cards. " _That's_  the poem you chose that makes you feel something?"

"Yes." Belle's tone's just shy of indignant and Felix, too used to being in Peter's presence, braces himself.

"And  _what_ does that make you feel?"

Belle has her answers prepared; she looks down to the anthology she'd laid on the table, littered in Post-Its and brightly colored tabs. "Accomplishment. Peace. Making your own decisions and being better off for it-"

"Elitism," Malcolm chimes. "Pretension."

This time it's Belle's turn to be incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"Oh  _come on,"_ Malcolm's voice is too high, too jovial as he begins to tear her down. " _I took the road less traveled by and that made all the difference._ What kind of shite excuse for life is that? Where's the emotion?" He stands, three cards still in one hand as he scribbles his own words on the whiteboard. "It's a description. A superficial snapshot. And it's tame. Where's the  _tension?_ The pulse? The taboo? In other words,  _where's_ the point he's supposed to make me  _care?"_

Belle all out scoffs, an audible sound of dismay. "It's a personal look into-"

"I know what it is," Malcolm returns, growing bored once more and rotating his cards as he sits back down in his seat at the table. "And I'm telling you it's a bad poem for this class. Next."

"But-"

" _Next."_

Although public speaking has never made him antsy before, Felix has to take a deep breath. And maybe he's still jumpy from that stupid note on top of his hand-written syllabus, the one that was obviously just a mistake, because it seems as though Felix only just manages to mutter, "I'm Felix" before Malcolm's eyes glue to him with, admittedly, polite interest.

But it isn't that strange of a thing - except for the fact the man had only ever looked a student in the eye to condemn their choice of poetry (which, was admittedly hilarious in Hans's case) Felix feels his ears grow hot, but he coughs and moves on. It's nothing. He knows it's nothing. .

"I-I'm Felix. I'll read  _[Alone](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175776)." _ He lifts his sheet. Deep breaths. "It's, uh, Edgar Allan Poe."

He gets through the piece without Malcolm's interruption. This isn't exactly unprecedented in that class period but he never realized he's the type to get such awful stage fright in front of only eight other people. None of whom really got the Professor Seal of Approval. Not that Felix cares.

" _-When the rest of Heaven was blue Of a demon in my view."_ He finishes with a breath. Apparently he's been holding it through his entire reading.

And when he looks up, ready for the sneer, he's surprised to find Malcolm giving him a polite smile. "Thank you, Felix." He turns to the rest of the crowd, holding his engaged look. " _This_ is an excellent example of a poem that both uses a strict formula - " The older man's eyes shift to Hans - "By an old-times famous poet -" His eyes to Belle this time - "That still has  _feeling."_

His eyes land on Felix, who does his very best not to read too much into it - not to let his head swell with the rarity of a genuine compliment directed at him and him alone.

And of course Felix is really looking too deep into this because now Malcolm's lacing his fingers under his chin in a gratingly endearing manner and he says, "We know it made you feel something. What was it and  _how?"_

And when Felix has no better answer than to shrug and look down at his paper, Malcolm does what's expected. "Pity. You were almost there. Next poem."

A redheaded girl with a bright smile goes next, but Felix tunes her out, perhaps not consciously right after she introduced herself as Ariel and says, chipper as anything, "I'll read  _[The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173917)"_

 

_**February** _

 

 

> From: felix.travers@sbu.edu
> 
> To: malcolm.q.gold@faculty.sbu.edu 
> 
> Subject: Missing Class
> 
> I'm afraid I'll have to miss class on my next workshop day. Is there a way I can make it up?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> From:malcolm.q.gold@faculty.sbu.edu
> 
> To: felix.travers@sbu.edu
> 
> Subject: Re: Missing Class
> 
> sure. submit your poem to the on line thing on time & come to my office hrs on fri at 3 so we can workshop together and i can give u full credit. :)
> 
>  
> 
>  

There's a part of Felix - however small that part may be - who's actually pretty damn thankful that Peter made him 'help' him take all his online exams in one of many psychology courses. If he hadn't, Felix probably wouldn't know what's going on. Thankfully, though, he does - and it's propinquity.

Which basically means that the more often you see a person, the more wont you are to like them. It's called the mere-exposure effect and, although Felix doubts it in some cases - Hans is still a dick - Felix takes comfort in having a clear-cut psychological reason for the way he's caught himself thinking about Malcolm more than once.

Like while he's in the shower and other inappropriate times.

And it's all because of psychology.

Which is why he's not gonna let himself get worked up as he makes his way to Malcolm's office. He's glad the prof didn't inquire, because he'd probably be less than thrilled that Felix ditched class to take an extra shift at Granny's. He just has to make sure he doesn't accidentally say anything to ruin it.

Malcolm's office has a little plaque outside the door, which makes it easy to find. The door's open which makes it even easier to just walk in and find his professor, sitting on a computer, swiping on a trackpad in a way that doesn't look at all academic.

Felix clears his throat in the doorway.

"Ah, Felix. You came." Malcolm says, gesturing for Felix to shut the door behind him. "One moment - ah - wait. Shit. Seems as though PacMan's devoured again."

Felix isn't sure how to process that but, thankfully, he doesn't have to because Malcolm closes his laptop and pulls out a sheet of slightly-lilac colored printer paper with various purple scribbles all over it.

"I bought the wrong type of printing paper," Malcolm clarifies, noticing Felix's curious look at the sheet. "All right. Right to brass tax. Let's talk about your poem."

Felix nods and pulls up the document on his tablet.

"Well, this is really quite good,' Malcolm says with a grin. "I wish you'd been in class so I could've made an example of it, to be quite honest."

Felix looks down, tries not to grin, looks around at the leather-bound books and wall decorations Malcolm probably bought at Target without a single photograph of family - of a wife or kids. Not that Felix was looking for that or anything.

"It's good," Malcolm goes on. "There's all this desperation and  _need_ hidden in here. But that's just the thing, you know? It's hidden. You hint to it but don't flesh it out. Spend some time on it. Get specific. Get long if you have to. But make me feel what you're feeling. You've got my investment, now make it worth it."

Felix blinks.

"As a reader, I mean," Malcolm clarifies the obvious, punctuating it with a small laugh and before Felix realizes it, he's - rather comfortably - rolling his eyes.

"And how would you suggest I do that?" Felix asks, voice just about as dry as his throat.

Malcolm exhales rather loudly, through a pout that make the locks of hair that flop by his forehead blow upwards. "That's kind of the point of the entire class. But I'll give you a few hints." His eyes twinkle lightly, and it's a pleasant, comforting feeling. Malcolm goes on. "Stop assuming your readers have better things to do than read your work. That's a bit insulting - they picked up your poem, ergo they want to read it."

"I never want to read Hans's poems," Felix mutters under his breath.

He intended for his comment to go unheard, but Malcolm's lips spread into a wider grin and he chortles, rests his head in the palm of his hand and takes a moment to just laugh. It's a fun sound, almost like a bell.

When he comes out of it, Malcolm rests his hand over his lips. Perhaps contemplating if he should've laughed so openly to a student's brazen diss of another, but then he's right back to business.

"If nothing else, take a lesson in his confidence," He murmurs. "The next thing you have to do is give me specific details. The more specific the better. Use visceral words, talk about exact memories. Don't be afraid to be crass - that can help a poem to stand out sometimes. And if editors think it's too much, reel it in a little in revision. But for now, make it raw."

Felix nods, unsure. "Okay."

Reading his face, Malcolm squints just a little and leans on his elbows, the paper forgotten. "Okay. You want a walkthrough?  _Tell me about him."_

"Huh?" Felix's heart stutters in its cavity, eyes gone wide.

"In your poem, you talk about your muse, your _'not-quite-here lover_ ' - and I just love that line, too - but tell me about him. Why is he 'not-quite-here?' What's keeping you apart? And why does this torment you so much?" Malcolm leans forward, hand extended on the desk as though he intends to take Felix's, but the table sits in the way. "Just lay all your cards on the table. Be specific. Be detailed. Be unapologetic and uncensored. Just tell me about him. And by the end of it? I promise you we'll have a great poem."

 

 

Felix taps his fingers along his keyboard, face drawn in a cringe. His econ paper is due on in four days and he's only got the first two pages done. What's more, words cannot express how much Felix truly does not care about comparing mean reversion with martingales in the stock market. But he types away nonetheless, hacking away word after word. It might not even be coherent, but at least he's getting it  _done._

The urge to log onto PoetryFoundation and look for his next example poem is present, toying at his mind, but he needs to prioritize. He's acing that class - but econ? Not so much.

No sooner has Felix shot back another mouth full of Red Bull than Skype's distinct glubbing dial tone goes off on his screen with a photo of his sole contact taking up the screen. He exits his research tabs and drafted paper immediately and accepts the call.

Peter's sitting back, hair tossed and bare chested in the blue glow of his computer; he winks as Felix's window opens. A lopsided grin and Felix knows he's blushing. Maybe it's from the attention, maybe it's because - for the first time in his life, he explained to someone else what made Peter so perfect, why he loves him so much. And now that the words are out there, scribbled forever on a page they tore out from one of Malcolm's notebooks, it all seems so real.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" Peter asks, reclining back even further to display his own nonchalance.

Felix shakes his head. Of course he isn't. Everything else can be put on hold; Peter's attention can be so flighty when he's on another continent. Felix takes what he can get.

"Good." Peter quirks his brow and, God, Felix has missed seeing his mannerisms. "You need to mail me my sketchbook - the one in my desk. It's got a tattoo design I want to use."

Felix nods with a quick grunt and leans over to rummage through Peter's desk. It's still full of his things - loose sticks of gum, charcoal pencils, a packet of Marlboro Golds, a box of condoms and a half-finished tube of lube, a cracked paperback copy of  _A Clockwork Orange,_ and then, finally, at the bottom, Peter's sketchbook. Felix holds it up, "This one?"

Peter waves his hand in affirmation and leans on his elbows in front of the screen. "That's it." He pauses, types something unseen on his own computer, and then adds in, "If you want one of the fags, go ahead."

Felix mutters his thanks, more than used to Peter's particular way of wording things, and thumbs a cigarette up from the box before he shuts Peter's desk, sealing in the smell of him that somehow lingers in the drawers. "How's the Czech Republic?" He asks, knowing Peter's bound to be full of stories, as he places the stick between his teeth and lights it.

Peter proves to be predictable; illustrating fantastical adventure after adventure as silky smoke slinks its way down Felix's windpipes. Everything from going to the tourist sites for the sole purpose to pickpocket the pickpockets or cheat people at their own card games, to talking about his insanely easy classload and how easy it is to blow everything off. And Felix sits there, taking in the information and getting  _envious-_ so very, very envious. Not that Peter is there - of course not - not that Peter's there, having adventures and enjoying himself - but rather that he can't be there with him. He'd applied to go to Europe beside him last semester - he just couldn't come up with the money.

"And, of course," Peter says, closing another story. "There's always the legal prostitution over here."

"Have you used it?" Felix teases, committing Peter's comical disgusted face to memory.

"Now, come on Felix, I know everyone hates the British but do you really think I'd have to  _pay_ to get any?"

Closed-lipped grin on his face, Felix shrugs and taps his cigarette; he watches as the ash falls on his Red Bull can.

And Peter smirks, quirks a brow. "Have you? Gotten any since I left?" Felix wrinkles his nose and shrugs it off. "The opportunity hasn't presented itself."

"Maybe you're just not looking."

"Are you telling me to go get laid?"

Peter shoots him a toothy grin from his side of the screen, staring up into his webcam and it feels so much like eye contact Felix's stomach flips. "Do what you want, but we both know how you get when you go too long trying to... _handle_  yourself."

Felix does his best to smirk back, even though he hopes that Peter's missing him as much as he misses Peter. It might be cliche, but there's something tantalizing in the idea of Peter running to him at the airport in May, tackling him down and jumping up with his legs hitched around Felix's hips, kissing him hard and hot to make up for lost time and distance.

"Hey, Felix. You listening?"

Felix blushes and hangs his head.

Peter shakes his head and cards a lazy hand through his hair. So flawless and effortless Felix has to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

"I was  _asking_ how you were doing. Keeping busy this semester? How boring is it without me?"

Felix sighs, crooking a grin. "Incredibly boring. I go to class, I work at Granny's. I sit in our room."

"Oh, come on, Felix. Have some imagination." Peter says, eyes sparking in the blue glow. "Make some of your own fun. Get into trouble - give me some stories for when I get back."

"See who had the better time?" Felix baits him, grins when the boy on the other end chortles.

"I'm not sure it'll be much of a contest, but if that's what it takes."

When Felix collapses into bed, four hours later, he sleeps better than he has since December.

 

_**March** _

 

"He's late. Again."

From across the room, Belle shrugs and leafs through the sheets of paper in front of her. "Well, Hans, to be fair he hasn't been this late since the first class-"

"Still. You'd think there'd be some professionalism. It's a workshop day! We need all the time we can get."

"It might not be so bad," Anton says from his corner of the class. "I wasn't terribly proud of this one-"

Ariel smiles kindly. "Oh, I liked it."

Hans pouts from his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. "We really should wait for class to start before we start talking about the poems."

"Well, is there a reason we have to wait? If he's not gonna show we might as well just go for it." Lily puts in.

From his desk, Felix squirms a little. The idea of plunging into...anything without a designated supervisor puts his teeth on edge. "Don't we need a professional opinion?"

Hans snorts. "Really, Felix? Do you think that man knows anything about poetry whatso-"

" _Sorry I'm late, class."_ Malcolm bumbles into the room cheerfully. He giggles as he makes his way to the front of the classroom. "Just got back from my publisher."

"Your...publisher?" Hans asks, quirking a brow. .

Malcolm nods jovially, not appearing to notice the way the color fades from Hans's face. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a lilac-patterned book with a scrawling black title in chicken-scratch font smeared across the front, legible as  _AMBITION by MALCOLM Q. GOLD._

And Malcolm sighs happily. "It's my third book."

Felix has to hide his head inside his hood to shroud the way he wants to laugh when Hans sinks lower into his chair.

"I've got a few copies. Anyone want this one? I'll sign it," Malcolm jokes, punctuating his jovial manner with a high giggle. "But seriously. I've got a hardcover coming to my place in the mail. If anyone wants this one it's theirs."

It's almost comical how the class sits in silence. Most people would take offense to the implication but Malcolm continues to grin and fiddle with the dust jacket.

And, most definitely, it's pity that makes Felix cough and say, "I'll take it."

The grin on Malcolm's face makes it look like he was stoic earlier. "Excellent!" He says, "Want me to sign it?"

Felix rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

Malcolm whips out a pen and scribbles on the inside cover page before extending the book out to Felix. He stands to retrieve it and wonders why it feels like all eyes are on him even when he sees the rest of his classmates shuffling papers and looking over their own poems or critiques.

It's only after he sits down that class really begins. Malcolm clears his throat.

"Well then, let's get started. Anton, would you read your poem out to us?"

The big man nods, nervously, "All right. My poem for this week is called  _Tiny…"_

 

 

"Hey, Felix wait up," Belle calls out to him after class, speedily trotting in his general direction. As though it never occurred to her that Felix has been on main campus since nine and all he wants is to microwave something shitty and Skype his best friend as soon as possible.

He does his best to give that impression, slouching over and scowling at the girl as well as the entire entourage falling in behind her - Will Scarlet, Rapunzel, Ariel, Anton all coming to a semi-circle around him.

"What?" He says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Belle blinks as though she wasn't expecting the ice in his tone. (If not that, Felix has to wonder, what  _would_ she expect? They haven't spoken outside of class before.) "Well. We were...erm. Well, we've noticed that Dr M's been giving you some extra attention and we…" She fades at his glare.

Ariel picks up her slack. "We just wanted to make sure he's not making you uncomfortable. If you want us to report him to the dean…"

From his pocket, Felix's phone vibrates. He shakes his head at the same time he reaches in and looks down at the screen. He shields his snicker at the same time he mutters, "Don't worry about it," and turns away, thumbing in his response to the text that interrupted his classmates' intervention:

 

> MAL  
>  (7:17pm)
> 
> u left ur notebook in the classroom
> 
> FELIX  
>  (7:20pm)
> 
> I'll get it from you at your office hours.
> 
> MAL  
>  (7:20pm)
> 
> not havin those his wk.
> 
> FELIX  
>  (7:23pm)
> 
> In class then
> 
> MAL  
>  (7:23pm)
> 
> don't u need hw?
> 
> MAL  
>  (7:37pm)
> 
> u wrk grannys tomorrow? i can give it to u on ur break & coffees on me
> 
> FELIX  
>  (8:00pm)
> 
> Again?
> 
> MAL  
>  (8:02pm)
> 
> ;)

 

_**April** _

 

Going to visit Malcolm during his office hours is innocent enough. That's the point of having office hours, so the professors can have a bit of one-on-one interaction with their students. Felix knows this. The school knows this. The world knows this. There is absolutely no reason Felix should feel so excited as he makes his way into the dusty offices in the Goodman-Hull building.

And yet there are nerves present when he shuts the door behind him.

It's funny, because Felix knows what this must look like when he steps behind the desk, leaning with one hand on the back of Malcolm's chair and the other on the desk. If the older man were to lean back at all, he'd be resting the back of his head against Felix's shoulder.

He isn't even sure how this became precedent, but there's something normal and exciting in looking down at Malcolm's screen to see a badly animated game of Pac Man bleeping away in front of his face.

"Almost winning," Malcolm grunts.

"I can see the screen," Felix returns. "You're not."

Malcolm makes a face that Felix can only see from his periphery. It's adorable in a petulant sort of way. "Well what do you know?"

Felix rolls his eyes, content to just sit and watch the yellow circle munch up the rest of the white dots until a book on the desk catches his eye. A plain hardcover, all in white except for the very clear black title, _An Anthology of Erotic Poetry._

He can't even say he's surprised, but something about seeing that book makes Felix start. "Er, Malcolm?"

Malcolm doesn't reply for a moment, waits until the pink ghost catches up to Pac Man and the screen goes black before he even seems to register Felix having said anything at all. "Hm?"

"What's that?"

Malcolm snickers when he notices the book in question and spins around in his chair, taking Felix by surprise as he nearly falters and trips onto the man's legs. "That? Just trying to pick out a poem to use in class."

"Seriously?"

And Malcolm only shrugs with an enviable nonchalance. "Sometimes I need to get my point across. And, besides, some of those are  _funny._ "

For a second, Felix thinks that Malcolm's winked at him. But then he leans back in the chair, fingers knit across the fleshy bits of his belly. "So, is this visit for class or," He grins. And Felix knows he's just imagining the heaviness to Malcolm's eyes as he asks, "For pleasure?"

Sucking in a breath, Felix considers stepping back. His knee touches the outside of the sleeve on Malcolm's wrinkly jeans. "How many poems do we need for the anthology?"

"Eight," Malcolm says, adding with a knowing smirk. "Same as last time you asked. Yesterday."

Jumping immediately to the defensive, Felix snaps, "What the hell are you implying?"

Offended, Malcolm narrows his eyes. "Only that your best friend is in the Czech Republic and you don't have too many other people to spend your time with. Either that or you're grade-grubbing by befriending me. Not that I'm complaining, mind."

Felix rolls his eyes. No fitting reply comes to mind, nothing that could spark a conversation or go anywhere and so he does the first thing that comes to mind, reaching for the plain book. "What did you mean, funny?"

The grin hasn't faltered on Malcolm's face, "Read some of it out. You'll see what I mean."

Skeptical, but willing to try, Felix opens the book and stops on a random page. " _'[... suck my juices Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174262)_ ,'" He reads, voice bald and lips curling up in distaste. He tries again, flipping to a second page, "God. Seriously?"

Malcolm snickers. "Some poets don't seem to understand purple prose is a bad thing."

"But purple paper is completely fine?" Felix returns, a surprisingly genuine smile on his face, shifting through a few more lines that struck him as rather laughable. Malcolm was right, so it seems, Felix thinks as he lifts himself to perch on Malcolm's desk. Some of these are rather funny. Snorting out a laugh, Felix reads out, " _Roses are red, Violets are fine, I'll be the six if you'll be the nine."_

Malcolm snickers in reply. "Told you they're funny."

"Can I submit that one for class?"

"Not if you want a good grade. I can't be that obvious with my favorites, now can I?"

Felix only rolls his eyes in reply, continues to shift through pages. There's one that meanders on for a few pages, quickly skimming for funnier words, Felix's lips skew up again at the indications of something laughable:  _[flesh-hot prick barrel veined](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/73/please-master/) _ staring back at him plainly in a black serifed font.

Picking a random line, Felix reads with a small grin on his face. " _Please master make me go moan on the table-"_ The grin flattens immediately. He shakes away the stirring under his gut. Perhaps that was a bad line to start in on, but stopping now-well, it's probably less effective in context. He shakes the thought from his mind, figuring a line was just on the horizon that would successfully kill the flickers and specks of electricity threatening to strike. " _Go moan oh please master do fuck me like that-"_

Head bent over reading, Felix can't tell for sure, but it looks like Malcolm's stiffened, gone to sit straight in his chair rather than the lazed back ease he'd been in before.

And Felix goes on, heart suddenly racing and, before he's fully aware what's happened, he realizes he  _wants_ to know how this one ends. " _In your rhythm thrill-plunge and pull-back bounce and push down till I loosen my as-"_

In a fit of shock, heart leaping, dick twitching, he lets out a hapless yelp. He throws the book across the office. He's red all over he can tell and he retreats into his sleeves, arms coming up into his hoodie, but when he goes to pull the zipper up, he finally takes in the rest of his environment.

Malcolm's breathing heavily, sharp hissing noises through his nose, he looks flushed and eyes stormy and dark. Felix's eyes dip  _down_ before he realizes what he's done and he's only part of the way through criticising himself for having a dirty mind before he recognizes exactly what he's seeing. His eyes grow wide, breath goes shallow.

"Can I ask you a question?" He asks, slowly, watching as Malcolm adjusts his position. While it looks for half a beat like Malcolm's going to try to hide his dick between his thighs, Felix's is confused at the sudden bloodrush that accompanies Malcolm standing right in front of him on the desk. Hands on either side of Felix's hips.

"Yeah" is Malcolm's only reply.

"Why is it that the syllabus says your office hours are one to three but you always want me here three to four?"

An exhausted grin, a heavy breath, and Malcolm  _whispers,_ voice as dark as when he reads verse himself, "I'm an opportunist. And I can't say I didn't fantasize that we'd end up here, somehow."

Felix tries to scoff but finds it dead in his throat when he looks into those blue eyes scalding him. "You're my teacher," He offers weakly.

"And you're twenty years old. More than capable of making your own decisions. And if I were going to manipulate you with grades, I would have tried that already, don't you think?"

"If the school finds out?"

"Why would they?" Malcolm wrinkles his nose, it'd almost be cute if they weren't already hovering inches above each other, pressing the barriers through the husky conversation. "Come on, Felix. Just try it on. Ten-minute free write."

Felix laughs before he can stop himself. "Ten minutes?"

It's an odd feeling, his hands fisted in the Malcolm's wrinkly shirt. His hands feeling soft skin, the fleshier bits that are softer under his hands than others who he's touched. He snickers, pulling his poetry professor in, lips open and wet, scratching against Malcolm's beard. "If you're really that confident."

He can't make any more intelligible noises , every intelligent sound wrung out and replaced with wet popping and strangled grunts as Felix slides his hands upwards so one can rest on Malcolm's shoulder and the other in his thinning flop of brown-grey hair, concentrating, not on words, but on the lips and scratchy beard against his, the lips, the teeth, and the tip of Malcolm's tongue.

 

 

 

 

> From: malcolm.q.gold@faculty.sbu.edu  
> 
> To: ENGL 370
> 
> Subject: X-TRA CREDIT OPPORTUNITY
> 
> this sat there's going to be an open mike night for poetry readings at the 'dark hollow' room of that neverland resort place. it starts at 6pm.
> 
> extra credit options: 1) read ur poetry in front of the world and/or 2) attend the event & then we'll have a discussion afterwards at my place if 2+ people want to. i am open to people bringing wine and snacks and making this an occasion. :)
> 
>  

Felix is one of the last people to arrive at Malcolm's house after the reading, and, perhaps to others' annoyance at being cooped up in their professor's den for the chance to save their GPA from Malcolm's harsh grading, Felix takes his time looking around. True to the man who lives there, Felix finds Malcolm's den a little cliche but fitting. Its eclectic mix of mismatched furniture and giant, probably extremely overpriced TV hanging on the wall like a crowning glory just seems to scream  _Malcolm._ There's a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf against one of the walls, a dartboard surrounded by puncture marks in the plaster, and, funnily enough a large mirror on the wall between the two windows.

With almost a happy sigh, Felix grins with the realization that sometimes things just  _make sense_ and folds his legs under himself on the floor, eyes scanning the array of snack foods set out on the coffee table. Store-bought sugar cookies, a few bags of potato chips, a bowl of pretzels, and about three bottles of red wine.

Everyone's settled into a semicircle around the table of treats; Hans petulantly munching on potato chips in an armchair, Lily occasionally ignoring the conversation to text a friend, pushed forlornly against the opposite arm of the couch where Will has Belle nestled under his arm, where Ariel sipping her glass of wine from a La-Z Boy, and Malcolm perched on the ottoman, just off Felix's left.

The discussion fizzles out almost as soon as it starts, a few words passed about how people's voices change, about how, to paraphrase Hans, it's interesting to see the range of talent and ability in an open event like that, what it would take to get enough gumption to present themselves.

It only lasts about an hour before it turns into normal conversation. Will and Belle in a conversation with Lily about arranging a double date with Lily's girlfriend, Emma. Hans busy trying to boast to Ariel and not succeeding, and Felix having nothing to do but finish up his second glass of wine and try not look Malcolm in the eye, lest he be too obvious.

The last of them - Felix and Belle and Will - gather up their coats once the clock reads nine.

"I appreciated this opportunity," Belle says politely, pushing her buttons through the holes on her jacket while Will waits by the door. She moves a little too slowly, misses a few of the buttonholes in her tipsiness. "Thank you."

Malcolm only offers a mock salute.

Will's the next to speak - completely sober and aware of the time. "It's dark out. Where are you parked, Felix? We can walk with you some of the way."

"I'm just on the road. Under a streetlight," Felix says, slowly reaching for the keys in his pocket. His eyes slide over to Malcolm for half a beat. He doesn't even know what he's asking for, but it comes a second later.

"Oh shit." Malcolm mutters. "I forgot that I have papers to hand back to all of you. Hang on just a moment and I'll go get them."

Both Will and Belle seem to narrow their eyes at the declaration but make no protest when the older man shuffles out of the room. It's awkward for a beat before Will heads out the door, mumbling that he'll get the heat running and makes his exit.

That leaves Felix alone with Belle. He almost cringes at her failed attempts in small talk ("Oh, so do you think you'll go to open mics in the future?" "So how are things at Granny's?") until Malcolm returns, two slightly purple sheets of paper in hand.

"Here you go, Ms. French," He says, "Oh, and here's Mr. Scarlet's too. Felix, I'm afraid I, erm,  _couldn't find yours right now."_ He directs his attention back to Belle. "But I know how eager you two were to be getting on home."

"Oh, that's fine." Belle speaks warily. "We can wait."

"It's fine." Felix says. "I won't keep you."

"It'll just be a minute," Malcolm says, grinning happily and already turning over his shoulder to resume his 'search.'

"Are you sure?" Belle asks, frowning and disgustingly sympathetic.

Felix nods, pace brisk.

"Okay," She says, slowly, slurring just a little. One hand on the knob, she turns back to Felix. "If you're sure."

"I am."

A facade of transparent cheerfulness comes next, just as she's stepping out the door. "Head home as soon as you get your papers, all right?"

Felix just cocks a brow at her, and waits till she stumbles into the darkness before he turns about on his heels, looking around that empty house that fit its owner just like a glove.

With a heavy footfall, Felix is surprised as Malcolm comes bumbling down the hallway and into the den, victorious grin on his face, lilac-colored paper in hand.

"Found it," He grins. "There you go. That should be all your reviews from the past two weeks."

Felix blinks. He'd been expecting-

Well he isn't sure what he'd been expecting. But that's beside the point, he figures. It's not important. Taking the small stack of papers with one hand, and holding his keys with the other, he nods and turns to take his leave behind his classmates. And, just as he goes to leave, Malcolm's hand circles around his wrist.

"Wait," Malcolm says, voice gone gruff and eyes clouded. His frown reads all business; no indication of his usual playfulness in sight. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

Felix shrugs. "In three hours? Maybe two glasses?"

The frown deepens, Malcolm's voice becomes - surprisingly - grave. "I'm not so sure you're okay to drive, Felix."

On the contrary, Felix knows he is perfectly fine. He might be skinny, but he's got a higher tolerance than  _that_. His frown melts the next moment, though when Malcolm steps closer.

"Stay a bit longer, yeah? Just till you sober up."

 _Oh_. Felix is pretty sure his jaw drops, only a little. He regains his composure in an instant, however, lips stimming upwards and leaning over, just a little, to let his hand circle around the neck of one of the wine bottles. Malcolm notices, brow arched and lips spreading to beam at the suggestion.

Felix lifts the bottle up to his lips. He tilts his head back, gulping down the warm, half bitter liquid. It goes right to his stomach, filling and warming it, a pleasant fuzziness and vibration in his arms and legs. Something stirs under his stomach when Malcolm chuckles at the sight.

"Just until I get sober," Felix agrees, tipping the bottle again, back up to his lips.

"Careful now," Malcolm murmurs, stepping closer and, with a hand on Felix's wrist, guides the boy to put the bottle down. "You know how much I love to read into subtext."

"And why, Professor," Felix says, slowly stepping closer, his free hand wrapping around the back of Malcolm's neck. "Would you bother when it's in the text?"

"Ah!" Malcolm grins, somehow managing to lift Felix almost into the air and flip him around, holding onto him with both arms around his hips. "And now you're learning."

His growl is heard, building on eroticism and Felix can't think of a single better thing to do, and so, with the buzz in his skull and all his limbs, he parts his lips and lets Malcolm close the rest of the way. And now they're kissing and it's so different than the times in Malcolm's office because there's a soft couch instead of a hard desk - and when did Felix fall down on it, and Felix can wrap his arms and legs around the man caging him under his limbs, and there's no danger of anyone coming to knock on the door or ask for help with their assignments.

They're all alone in Malcolm's house, surrounded with wine and the last of the treats from the discussion and Malcolm's warm and pressed in on top of him, lips tasting like the wine and sugar on the cookies.

Malcolm's hands come around Felix's back, teasing at the hem of his shirt, kissing a pathway from Felix's lips down to his jaw and his neck and then from the neck to the jaw to his mouth with only his tongue, leaving wet lines dripping in his wake. Felix bucks and retaliates, bites when appropriate but is truthfully so damn rusty that he's slow to return. Malcolm's hands rub warm circles in the small of his back, teetering and teasing a flash of nails at his spine. And the man snickers.

"Well, well, look at you." Malcolm punctuates the statement with a shrill giggle, caressing his hand at Felix's hip.

Pretending not to be out of breath, Felix snickers and rolls his shoulders, relishing the groan Malcolm pours off at the sight. Rewards him thereafter: both hands rotating and pulling at his belt, shedding the material and clumsily bumping the backs of his hands against his heating skin there.

"Seriously," Malcolm whispers into his ear, entangling Felix's hair between his fingers, snapping his head up. "Look."

Felix blinks, unsure what exactly he's supposed to be looking at. The blinds are drawn but open at the slats. He can see the streetlights outside in front of the black night's sky, but not much else.

Malcolm shifts, tightens his grip and there's a thrilling jolt of pain that shakes a sigh from his throat. There's movement across the way - and that's when he sees it, his reflection - flushed and lips twisting up into this manic grin that transforms his face in at a moment's notice. Above him, Malcolm snickers at the sight, eyes locked onto their smushed reflections and Felix sees his rough hands curling around his hips to unsnap his jeans at the same time he feels the hands and the denim loosen around his hips. He takes Felix by the shoulders and flips him around. The leather is cold against his stomach, his cheek buries itself in a suede throw pillow.

There's something of a thrill in the added sense, getting to stare at Malcolm and feel his ministrations at the same time while he shuffled his jeans and boxers off his hips.

Felix watches as Malcolm's lips go into a sly grin and slide closer to him, hovering on air. And now it's a tongue, pink and glinting in the reflection, warm and wet on his skin, gliding from the slope on Felix's shoulder, up to his ear. He bites on Felix's ear and rotates his hips flat against him when the boy bucks back.

Malcolm hums. Felix watches him in the reflection, grin spreading wide and joyful across his face. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning as he takes his hand and drags a long line up the backs of Felix's thighs. His hands are rough with the dryness one usually attributes with middle age.

It's one of the only places where Malcolm shows his age, Felix thinks. They're dry and flimsy in that way you can expect when its only motions are swiping a pen across a page, or typing, or using a remote control. And they're continuing that long line up Felix's legs, scraping up the fleshy parts of his ass. It's a funny, scraping sensation; akin to finally reaching a mosquito bite that's been silently tormenting you for days.

Felix meets Malcolm's gaze in the mirror across the room, some sort of fever and ache builds and surges in his spine.

 

 

Staring in a mirror has a funny way of distorting time. Felix is lost in the reflection, the intense blue in Malcolm's eyes makes him lose track of time, of movement, and suddenly Malcolm's got two fingers inside him. Felix isn't sure when it happened, but it feels so good he's bucking back, rolling his hips into the feeling. It's a hot tension, burning even further when he meets Malcolm's eyes in the mirror. Blue and  _twinkling_ in complete delight as he twists his wrist to send shivers up his spine.

Malcolm catches his eye in the mirror. The wink he delivers somehow makes Felix go weak at the knees around the same time he rolls his eyes.

His breath stutters in as Malcolm reorients his fingers inside Felix to stretch along different muscles. Through the mirror, he watches as Malcolm uses his free hand to toil with his belt and zip. Just to be a pain Felix rolls his hips back the instant the older man's brows furrow.

He chokes in his throat, and maybe he's disoriented but he could swear Malcolm  _whines_ just a little.

The real, visceral response from the older man is to  _wrench_ his hand and push the muscles harder. It's unbelievable strain, stimulation, and oh so very  _good._

Felix can smell sweat all of a sudden, sweat and the mismatched perfumes and colognes of his classmates who'd been sitting in this room mere minutes before. But other scents start to overpower it, and Felix knows in minutes it'll be nothing but sweat, skin, and sex.

Malcolm manages to squirm out of his jeans, taking a handful of elastic down with him, shuffling it down his thighs. It's the first time Felix has ever seen his professor's cock, although he's certainly felt it before, and he can't help but feel somehow  _cheated_ in how he's left to look from the reflection through the mirror.

Other than appearing almost disappointingly average in size, it's...unique looking. Malcolm has a more drastic curve to his dick than what Felix is used to seeing. Not that he's seen too many - but neither of his ex boyfriends had such a slope. (And, from what he's seen through his clothes, neither does Peter.)

But now he's got a hand shuffling in the pocket of his jeans, and he pulls out a half-empty white tube and a black foil square.

"You knew." Felix drawls out, twitching into a searing heat in his stomach when Malcolm steeples his fingers against the line of taut muscle.

"Hoped," Malcolm says, voice losing its usual jovial edge and husking over.

Felix groans and rolls his hips, eliciting a small whine when Malcolm removes his hand to roll the condom down his shaft, and slicks the latex over from the tube.

"Ready?"

With a small smirk, Felix uses both of his hands to throw himself backwards, on his knees to hover over Malcolm. The older man makes a small  _oof!_ as Felix's back comes into contact with his slightly-fleshy stomach and chest. Felix ticks his head back to nip at Malcolm's beard once before sighing his reply and sinking down on Malcolm with a jolt. "What do you think?"

Malcolm barks a shout at the contact and bucks into Felix, on arm snaking around to embrace him from behind while the other stabilizes them both as they rock on the couch.

And Felix is breathless as he dives down, conducting himself on his knees. He starts slow, riding Malcolm with a set pattern. A heady groan and Malcolm returns the favor, taking the embracing arm and twisting his wrist till his fingers squeeze, just lightly, on Felix's dripping cock.

It's slow. Methodical. Almost surreal in its pattern, almost picturesque. But by the time the full picture can be registered, that sinful reflection right in front of him, feeling and seeing all at the same time. There's some added intensity in acting as both participant and voyeur.

He's fucking himself on his professor. A man twice his age. And it's a welcome change, writing back and letting chest hair tickle his back, letting their sweat move and mingle, feeling so intimately attached to another person. Fuck all the rules, all the taboos, because nobody's wanted him like this in a long time. Nevermind who it is.

They finish in a heap on the floor, panting against each other. At some point they'd rolled off the side, forgotten the mirror, and lost everything but the feel of skin on skin and liquid and pheromones.

 

 

Felix hadn't expected to stay the night at Malcolm's. He hadn't meant to go multiple rounds till he was too tired to drive himself home and ended up sleeping off the exhaustion in Malcolm's bed.

But then again, what had he meant to do? Go one round on Malcolm's couch and then crawl back to his dorm and stare at Skype all night long?

If nothing else, he was a great deal happier come morning, munching on Trix cereal across the table from Malcolm, mindlessly flipping through channels on the small TV positioned on the countertop.

Even if this - absolutely none of it - was what he'd expected.

Felix flicks his plastic spoon around in the bowl, watching the bright circles spin around in mini cyclones of milk. He's never been the type for idle conversation, but for some reason, he laughs and shakes his head, saying, "I wouldn't have expected this for breakfast."

"Oh?" Malcolm says through a spoonful of colors. He sets the remote down, ending on some soap opera that's probably  _All My Children_ or  _Days Of Our Lives_ or something like that. "And why's that?"

Felix shrugs, small grin on his face, and lifts his face up to meet Malcolm's inquisitive eyes. "It's like the box says, _'_ Trix are for kids.'"

There's a shrill giggle, Malcolm reaches out and shakes Felix's shoulder with a playful lift in his mouth before he sits up straighter and all but proclaims _,_ "I've got a young spirit."

"Is that what you're calling it?"

"Actually I consider  _that_ more my  _ambition_."

To that, Felix narrows his eyes. "Your book?"

"Have you read it yet?" Malcolm inquires cheerfully, spoon already back in his mouth. "I did give you your own copy after all."

"I'll get around to it."

"Ah," Malcolm says, giving a half disappointed hum into their breakfast food and slumping his shoulders.

It makes Felix's stomach flop. but not in any sort of anticipation. Just a sense of dread. Like he let Malcolm down, disappointed him. Like Malcolm asked one favor of him but Felix had been too self-absorbed to accomplish it.

And so, to make up for it, Felix opens his mouth and lets the words trickle out, "Read it out to me. It'll be better that way."

Malcolm's eyes ignite. Energy, joy, passion all in plain sight in the blue. He leans forward and presses a springy kiss to Felix's lips, wetting them with the milk he'd let seep through as he ate. "That it will, Felix. So much better."

 

_ **May** _

 

Malcolm likes to hover. It's a bit odd to Felix, considering the nature of their...relationship. One would think Malcolm would want to be a little more cautious for fear of losing his teaching career forever, but it appeared as though he doesn't care. It almost makes sense, Felix thinks. He knows Malcolm would rather spend day in and day out writing poetry rather than grading papers.

And so the fact remains that Malcolm does not care about university policy and every night when Felix isn't sleeping over at Malcolm's house, there's at least one breathy, guttural phone call or dirty picture exchanged.

Even though Felix knows  _exactly_ what Peter would say if he could see him right now, he indulges, he enjoys himself -just like Peter told him to.

Peter's been on his mind a lot tonight. He doesn't feel bad about it, but it does make him a little antsier than normal. And, for perhaps the first time since his relationship with Malcolm has been in full swing, he only relaxes for a few minutes before he slides off the bed to gather his clothes.

"Eh?" Malcolm grunts, pushing himself up on the mattress, resting his knuckles on his temple. "What're you getting your clothes on for?"

Felix rolls his eyes and simmers quietly before turning around, holding his discarded jeans in front of himself lest Malcolm decide to stare. "I have to go back to my hall tonight. I'm picking up Peter at the airport tomorrow."

"Ah. Peter." Malcolm sounds older than usual when he sits up in bed. His elbows rest on his knees and he narrows his eyes towards Felix.

Felix, unsure of Malcolm has anything important to add, returns to fish for his boxers and shirt. Maybe they got thrown under the bed?

"You know, I think this place is closer to the airport than campus is." Malcolm says after a moment. "Why don't you stay the night? You'll be able to sleep in a good fifteen minutes."

Felix stops, flexes his fingers in the denim in his hands. The rejection is ready on his mouth:  _do you honestly think we'll still be fooling around after Peter gets back?_ But, when he looks closer to Malcolm on the bed, elbows propped on his knees and looking so disturbingly cute with his hair messed up and belly still pink from the way the sheets warmed him, he really can't let them out.

Malcolm presses on. "Besides. The semester  _just_ ended. I'm not your professor anymore. I can finally take you out. We could do breakfast."

That brings out a cough from Felix, baffled and surprised. "That isn't a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Suspicion." Felix waves his hand. "The semester ended three days ago. You're still faculty and I'm still a student."

"You're overestimating how much they care," Malcolm giggles and shoves the blankets aside to stand by the foot of the bed, he takes a few swaying paces towards Felix till he can reach out and grasp the denim waistband in Felix's hands. "The rule is in place to protect students from being taken advantage of, yes?"

"I guess."

"Right. Why would they have to protect a student from a faculty member who has no power over them?" Malcolm says, arcing a brow in a way that, for a moment, makes Felix forget everything in favor of missing Peter.

But he gathers his bearings soon enough to roll his eyes. "I don't think the dean'll see it that way."

"I can worry about the dean." Malcolm waves his hand and reaches around the jeans Felix is still holding between their hips to hug the boy close. "Unless your favorite part was the secrecy."

Felix can only manage to roll his eyes halfway before Malcolm laughs happily, bright eyes twinkling.

"Thought so," He brags in a sing-song voice and hugs Felix tighter around the waist. "Well if it's that rush you want, you could always take my class in the fall. It's  _Culture in Poetry._ It'll be a lot... _fancier,_ but what can you do?"

With a huffy breath, Felix steps back. Malcolm slackens his hands and doesn't put up a fight when he moves away. Felix continues to play with the waistband of his jeans when he speaks. "Do you honestly think I'll still be coming back to you once Peter comes back?"

To Felix's surprise, Malcolm isn't offended. He taps his nose knowingly, pricking a strange air of annoyance in Felix from across the room. "Ah," He says. "So that's what this is about."

"Of course."

Malcolm takes a moment and then, although Felix cannot guess why, he shrugs. "Thought you would've wisened up to that by now."

Felix is completely aware he's being played. But he can't help it, it spins around in his skull and he has to ask. "Wisened up to what?"

Malcolm plops back down on the bed, examines his tan lines on his arms and hips with a sour expression. But his voice is light when he answers the question. "Felix. You broke up with both of your ex-boyfriends because this Peter you love so much  _hinted_ that you've got a  _chance_ with him. I've read everything you've written and the only impression I get is that Peter wants a monopoly of you."

Felix's gut clenches. His fist balls up without his consent, but he stands still. And Malcolm continues.

"I've read everything you've written about the subject, remember. And it seems to me as though you and the first one - oh what was his name again? Ramos? Remus? Rufus?"

"Rufio." Felix grinds his teeth.

"Right. It's obvious that you've got a ton of unresolved issues there. But that was such a messy breakup that I doubt you'll ever speak again. And John." Malcolm smiles, but it looks more like a grimace than anything. "From the way it sounds, you two would've gotten a house and a dog in a few years if Peter hadn't gotten drunk and kissed you that night."

"What's your point?"

"Just that he seems more willing to ruin your relationships than start one with you." Malcolm shrugs. "If I'm wrong? Fine."

"You  _are."_

Malcolm waves a flippant hand. " _If I'm wrong_ and Peter does an about face - go on and have your happily ever after with the guy who left you completely alone while he went on his European adventures. But if he takes a while to come around...or if he never comes around...you might as well have a few orgasms while you wait, right? I'm more than happy to fulfil that role."

"I bet you are." Felix grumbles. He isn't willing to consider Malcolm's words too closely. Peter's always been fine with Felix dating. Yes, whenever things got serious Peter had a role in things falling apart. But Peter has a role in every part of Felix's life. It's just the way things are. He can't blame Peter for the bad - especially not while his best friend is wrapped up in so much good of his life.

But it doesn't mean he can't take advantage of Malcolm's offer. After all, Felix doubts Peter's spending his last night in the Czech Republic alone.

And so, he drops his jeans on the floor again and sits down on the mattress next to Malcolm.

The older man snickers with his brow lifted. "Change your mind?"

"You said it yourself. You live closer to the airport." Felix rolls his eyes before reaching out to squeeze Malcolm's chin, bringing their faces closer together. "Now shut up, okay?"

Malcolm doesn't reply with words, taking Felix's command to heart, but instead he lurches forward, tackling Felix back down on the mattress, and kisses him soundly, almost whispering the poems to him through his breath, in spite of it all.

They're late to the airport. It really isn't Felix's fault. When his alarm went off, Malcolm had wrapped his arms tighter around Felix's waist and mumbled into his hair, "You can sleep in a bit, remember?"

And then, when he woke up to Malcolm nipping at his neck, they managed to kill more time with a quickie that really wasn't that quick. Felix had kicked himself to his feet the second he saw the time, afterglow dead in his veins.

"Shit. I'm late."

Malcolm chortled. "Airplanes are rarely on time."

"I can't just make him  _wait!"_

"What about breakfast?"

" _Breakfast?"_ Felix spun around, jumping to slide on his jeans the rest of the way. "Peter's on the plane right now. He's probably already above Maine. If I don't leave now I'm gonna make him wait."

Malcolm held his hands out to pacify Felix and shrugged. "I suppose I could buy you something on the way back."

"What?"

"Oh. Well, I thought I'd come along." Malcolm explained, sorting through his drawers for a striped polo shirt. "I've heard so much about him. Think it's high time I've met him."

And that's how Felix ended up here, waiting at Gate AE5 with Malcolm right off his shoulder, standing with baited breath for Peter to come sauntering down the terminal.

 _This,_ Felix thinks, eyes flashing from the screen announcing the landing time of Peter's flight down to Malcolm at his side and then back up to the screen,  _This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?_


End file.
